It Was in the Merry Month of May
by V.M. Bell
Summary: He eased the silk off her shoulders, watching it pool at her waist as she pulled away, resting her weight on his haunches.  Lucius & Narcissa.


**It Was in the Merry Month of May**

Her body smelled fresh frolicking in the grass, blossoming soft hues of earth stains on her fair palette of lips, breasts, and hands that brushed, touched, breezed past his skin, subtle-soft-seductive. Narcissa Malfoy was pure ice, ice now melting into a singing brook that wound its currents around his consciousness.

But the current, he couldn't catch it, cradle it as his own, that current so elusive, untouchable as ice and now untouchable as water. She escaped him, his mind and his heart and his grasp when all others had fallen so easily under his dominion.

No, not Narcissa and her vixen laughter, her head tilted back in the rippling sunlight. The wind teased open her sheer robe and he watched her, feeling himself grow hard at the sight of the tableau: the nymph posed atop the meadow green, fending off her lover's advances. She trailed her fingers through the long grasses, plucking wildflowers and blowing them into the air as she threw a sidelong glance at his half-parted lips and transfixed eyes.

"Good Lord, Lucius," she sighed, resting her chin on her knees. "Are you going to sit there and wait?"

He smirked. "You have been running from me all afternoon, dear. Is there any reason to believe that you won't slip away to the next hill?"

She crawled towards him and wrapped her lissome frame around his. His hands slipped underneath her robe, a chill against her warmed skin, but she did not cringe. She did not even move. Covering his eyes, she leaned forward. It was a kiss of strawberry and vanilla and the sun swirled into the delicious lips deft and sweet. Lucius wanted more, more, but he could not ask and only she could give.

He eased the silk off her shoulders, watching it pool at her waist as she pulled away, resting her weight on his haunches. She pushed him down, down, down until his back pressed against the sweet scent of dirt and her hair hung like rain about his face.

"There is reason." She kissed him again and pressed deeply into him. "At least this time, darling."

He had chased her for hours, firing witty remarks and banters during their lunch picnic when all he wanted was to do was tear her clothes off and see her, a nude silhouette against the light. Narcissa played the temptress to its quintessence, lips cherry red and voice perfect pitch, smiling as if she could read the lurid fantasies ensnaring his mind, smiling because she knew it was within her power to satisfy those fantasies or to deny them. But now -- but now, Lucius thought, the hunter's persistence would be awarded, and oh, how he would satiate himself.

Yet even as she freed his straining trousers and her tongue toyed with him and he dug his nails into the dirt, he could imagine her chuckling as she pleasured him, a carefree pursuit as she watched him tremble at her strokes. She possessed him still, didn't she, sly and dominating beneath her lucid exterior? Narcissa was not a simpleton, not a pretty woman to pose and play with as pleased. She had her own agenda, one that could be as devious as any, pursued until it succeeded.

For now, though, the scheming mind seemed content to satisfy itself with his cock, erect and hot in her warmth, and Merlin he was hot for her, his body throbbing. She was too gentle, too gentle.

And then she stopped and inched forward, laying her body along the length of his, her hands resting on the panes of his chest. She spread her fingers against his skin, comparing the width of her hand span to that of his torso. She could have been a pianist, he thought, the arch of her hands delicate, the lines of her wrist slender. Lucius gathered her into arms, squeezing her slightly when he heard a wordless exhale from her mouth.

He looked at the ring adorning her left hand, nothing more than a simple band, no different than how Muggles, too, celebrated their marriages. The engagement ring had been much prettier, he decided: the sharply cut diamond that would have looked ostentatious on anyone else blended well with Narcissa's presence. But that ring lay locked in her jewelry box, hidden by a turn of the key and a tap of the wand, and instead, there was this -- solidarity, love, and a faith that a miniscule creation of gold could solve all the problems of the world.

Would it still be like this, a year later? Two years later? Five? Would they still do as they did now, basking in each other's desire? Would they still feel the heat of youth urging them headlong and forward into the tumbles of spring?

Maybe his fierce and passionate sadness was far too palpable on his face, far too palpable to be appropriate for this quiet season. Narcissa brought a finger to his lips, her face quiet and tinged with concern. Was she reading him still, her eyes tracing the etchings in his mind? She sat up, straddling his hips, and the wind passed through her hair, ephemeral as the world around them, passing and transitory, and that was when Lucius realized they would grow, they would age, that never again would they feel the day glorious upon their faces.

"I want you to close your eyes, Lucius." He did as she told him to do, and her voice was distant, though her body near. "Close them, and don't open them until I say you can"

An all-encompassing heat settled around his cock. Harsh nails gripped his shoulders, his collarbone, an _ohgod_ slipping from his slack jaws. And as she rode him, cries of pleasure muted in the air, he saw her behind the dark curtain of his gaze -- his wife, his Narcissa, named after a flower of white, princess of the spring, her silk robe long dirtied and discarded. What did she look like in the throes of passion? Was her blond hair tossed about her face, lacking its usual perfection? Did her eyelashes flutter imperceptibly, involuntarily, betraying her lust?

There existed a Muggle belief that one was closest with God when making love, a belief that Lucius had lumped it together with all other of their shibboleths, but as his climax neared, as his thrusting grew insistent, he began to understand. God was a performer of miracles, it was said. His abilities, his means transcended the bounds of humanity. Narcissa, then, was God. With her, he closed his eyes and had vision. With her, he had power and was powerless. With her, he found the world encapsulated in a spring afternoon, captured not through magic but by the infinity of memory.

It would be a remembrance painted in impressions.

And it was thus that he came inside of her, shuddering, and Narcissa collapsed on top of him, her skin moist with sweat and light pressed against him. "Open," she said.

Years later, when he is old and ancient, he will recall his once-young wife as an edgeless blur against his shoulder. But Lucius was youthful, youthful and wide-eyed, and he brushed out the tangles in her hair before she melted into him and they fell asleep under the patronage of May.


End file.
